


Mother’s Doll

by Azeran



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Body Horror, Body Modification, Character Death, Horror, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 00:30:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17797634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azeran/pseuds/Azeran
Summary: A girl strives to become something her mother can love.





	Mother’s Doll

**Author's Note:**

> I highly recommend you don’t read this if abuse, body modification, body mutilation, death, or any other horrific elements squick you out. But I’d you do take a chance and journey forth, leave a comment at the end!

I’ve always liked dolls, ever since I was a little girl. I used to stare for hours at Mother’s porcelain collection down in the viewing room. I admired them in their fancy glass cases, with their milky complexions, silk spun hair and hand sewn dresses. Mother used to labor for hours over those, her tired shoulders growing hunched as she hand beaded lace with delicate little pearls, sewing velvet ribbons into flowers and bows. I longed to have one of those dresses for myself, they were so pretty. She always said no though. They were special, just for her dolls. But since I was such a good girl, she’d teach me how to make one. Then, maybe one day, she’d teach me how to make a doll too. 

 

We began soon after that fateful day. Mother would bring home the prettiest hands and feet, tiny limbs the shade of cream, or ringlets tied with scraps of satin. Piece by piece she’d have me put them together, smacking my hands whenever I did a stitch much too clumsily, or painted the blush on in thick red smudges, not the softer pink Mother preferred. It took so many tries before I did anything close to what she wanted. I wasn’t a natural talent, she said. I needed to be more careful, have a lighter hand. This was an art! I had to respect it. So I worked harder, honing my craft. Mother wanted me to be like her, and I felt the same way. I wanted to make beautiful things too.

 

Poor little me. No matter how hard I tried, it was never enough. Something was always off, even when I did things exactly as she wanted. I’d present my finished doll before her, eagerly seeking praise for its pristine clothes and perfectly coiffed hair. See how hard I worked Mother? Aren’t you proud of me? How I longed for her respect! ….her love. But she spat on my attempts, called me a stupid, hopeless child. She conjured flaws out of thin air, stabbing her stubby nail at a supposed fleck of color out of place, or a hem that was ever so slightly askew. Clearly I hadn’t paid that much attention to any of her lessons, if I was missing such obvious mistakes. And then, my beloved mother would do the unthinkable. My doll, all my hard work, would be thrown into her kiln to burn. 

 

_”Start over,”_  she would say, forcing me to watch the flames devour my creation with a bruising grip to my chin.  _“Start over, and this time, do it RIGHT!”_

 

The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve begun to realize that nothing I ever did would be good enough for Mother. Doll crafting was her passion, her purpose in life. I couldn’t live up to her expectations. Not the way she wanted anyway. Mother could take pieces long forgotten and transform them into something entirely new, more beautiful than ever before. It wasn’t only her steady hand and scrutinizing eye that made her so good at what she did. She was innovative, a master. Anything I created would never compare. The broken limbs and forgotten curls turned to sand in my hands, their potential promise always slipping away. I couldn’t be her. I wasn’t her. 

 

But maybe...just maybe. I could become something she wasn’t. She’d have to love me then, like she loved her precious dolls. 

 

I started small, the way she taught me. It was easy to paint and powder my face, as Mother had a whole array of cosmetics on her vanity. I was careful to apply the whitening cream smoothly onto my flesh, blocking out my freckles and uneven complexion. All of her dolls had blank lids, feather soft lashes, and lovely rosebud mouths, which I mimicked the best I could, gently dabbing a shiny gloss across my lips. Mother’s looked like this, I thought with a smile. It made my whole face freeze in a porcelain mask. But I couldn’t forget the most important part. The blush, which had always been thick as cherry juice when I applied it as a child. I was quivering with excitement as I pricked my finger with a sewing needle and let the blood bead up. It stung, but only a little. With delicate motions I patted it into my cheeks, blurring it into my facial cream. There. The reflection staring back at me from Mother’s mirror looked so much more like a doll. All I had to do was keep going! This would actually work. 

 

Pinching a strand of my hair, I grimaced at the sight. It was a boring shade of dirty blonde, not the sunlight gold or delectable chocolate I knew her to favor in her collection. Something had to be done. I nervously picked up a pair of sewing scissors, holding them up to my scalp. I could cut it all off, but would that be enough? I still wouldn’t have the luxurious curls I knew Mother liked. There were her wigs though….after all, how many times had she brought home a broken head that didn’t have pretty hair, only a nice face? One was easier to fix than the other, she always said. Yes, perfect. That’s what I could do! 

 

The scissors made a quiet snipping noise, cutting through my hair as if it were butter. I didn’t stop until all that was left was the thinnest bit of downy fuzz. It was enough of a clean surface for the wig to adhere properly, if I was remembering Mother’s lessons correctly. Taking care not to disturb her collection, I chose a long, curly wig with demure bangs, certain it would frame my face perfectly. I also found her glue gun, and several sticks of glue. This was a tedious job, tricky. Mother rarely let me help. Determined to please her though, and leave no stone unturned, I waited until the glue was piping hot and carefully began squeezing thick, steaming lines all across my scalp, exactly like I’d seen her do in the past. It hurt, more than anything I’d ever felt before.

 

“For Mother….” I fought through the pain and placed the wig on top of my head, pressing it down into the tacky adhesive. She always said women must suffer for beauty. I suppose the same could be said for dolls too.

 

Eventually the pain faded to a dull throb, and a few yanks proved my new hair was flawlessly held in place. Perfect. Mother was going to be so proud of me! I admired the whole look with a bright smile, until I saw the reflection of my nails in the mirror. They were ghastly. I always chewed them, and my cuticles too, not that I ever really noticed I was doing it. Force of habit, a nervous tick. Either or, something had to be done. Mother was definitely going to notice if everything else about me was perfectly put together, only to look down and see my horribly mangled fingertips! What was I to do? I could try to replace my nails, as I had my hair. Really though, it was only my left hand that was the problem. In fact, my right looked almost pristine in comparison! So it wasn’t that difficult a fix, not really. I only had to do what Mother had taught me. She’d forced me to sew so many limbs over the years, it was now muscle memory. And while I didn’t have her artistic eye, I knew how to pick the most compatible parts, rework them into an entirely new creation until the edges blended seamlessly, as if they’d always been one. 

 

I was strategic with my choice. We had a room in our house dedicated solely to the new parts Mother brought home. It was chilly inside, preserving their alabaster hue. Every one of them was dainty and feminine, with expertly sculpted pearlescent nails. Finding one to match my own would be a challenge though, as my hands, while small, had incredibly long fingers. Mother used to call them spider fingers, and rant about how terrible it was I was never able to wield a paint brush or sewing needle like she could. I didn’t have the mental capabilities for it. If only I’d been able to learn…..

 

Sadly, talent never came naturally to me. I’d lamented over this for as long as I could remember. Mother was a genius, her prowess beyond my feeble imaginative scope. With her slender digits, and uncalloused palms, she had the hands of a queen, or a renaissance painter. Unfortunately, I couldn’t take hers. I had to settle for something in this room. Yet the more I looked, the more I realized that nothing was going to be the perfect match I needed. Either the back of the hand was wrong, or the knuckles were puffy, sticking up awkwardly. Then I saw them. The perfect fingers. Lonely without a hand, they were a near flawless match for my own, shape and all. We even shared a skin tone! I took the digits from their place on a frozen shelf and smiled. Gorgeous nails too. Excellent. 

 

My mind blocked out the pain far quicker than I’d been expecting. I was no stranger to the sting of a belt, or a hand striking my face, but this was a harsher pain. Crueler. Even worse than the glue. Thankfully the knife I’d chosen was wickedly sharp, designed to cleave through bone and muscle in one blow. I refused to let myself fade to black, gritting my teeth as each of my fingers were chopped free at the knuckle, blood spurting across the floor in luminous ruby beads. The few times Mother had brought home a truly fresh batch of new parts, she’d shown me how careful she was to sear the edges clean. Cauterizing, she called it. I followed her example as best I could, barely even feeling the heat on my raw flesh. All I had was a small lighter, but it seemed to work alright. The bleeding stopped, leaving a remnant stench of copper in my nose, with the stronger smell of burnt flesh lingering in the air. It wasn’t so different from cooked meat really, if it’d accidentally been left to char a little. I actually kind of liked it. It was familiar. Mother had never been a good cook.

 

The cold air helped calm my wounds, the garish stumps left behind only slightly throbbing. Easy to ignore, though I hoped it wouldn’t disturb my stitch work. This was the tricky part, after all. Mother would notice if a single stitch was out of place. Cradling the fingers in my unfettered hand, I left the cold storage and returned to Mother’s boudoir, which had been divided in half to also serve as her crafting room. I used to spend so many hours in here as a child, even before my lessons began. There were so many things to admire, to touch and explore. The doll clothes had always been my favorite. I kept my eye on Mother’s massive wardrobe even as I fetched a needle and thread, eager to find the perfect dress for my purpose. She hated me touching her things, but I knew this time it would be alright. It was for a good reason, after all. But I had to complete my sewing first. 

 

Threading the needle was muscle memory, and the stitches, while not quite so easy, were still less challenging than I’d been expecting. I kept them small, just like I knew Mother would want. A ring of peach thread overtook my fingers one by one, nearly invisible against my fair complexion, until my hand was freshly adorned with a lovely new set of digits. They really were identical to my others. It was rather miraculous. I held my hand up to admire my work, trimming the excess threads with Mother’s sewing scissors. What of it if they couldn’t actually move? Dolls were meant to be seen, never played with. Her collection was far too priceless to be handled by children. The one time I’d tried, as a very young girl, she’d smacked me so hard I had a bruise on my cheek for days. 

 

_ “Careless child! Keep your clumsy hands to yourself! These dolls are not for you!” _

 

Her outrage haunts me to this very day. I was never careful enough for Mother. Never good enough. I wasn’t the little doll maker she wanted me to be. But I could be the perfect doll instead. 

 

I set the spool and sewing needle down on the vanity. A bit of blood had beaded up around the stitches; nothing a clean cloth couldn’t mend. More important that I finish getting myself together, apply the final touches. Mother would be home soon! I hurried to clean my wounds and then rushed to her closet, throwing open the heavy doors with a flourish. It was stuffed to the brim with various gowns and accessories, all of them more beautiful than the last. Impeccably tailored too. Mother was a wonderful seamstress, after all. Sifting through the assortment, and ignoring the throb in my left hand, I picked a pink dress with the most delicate white lace I’d ever seen. It was frothy, decorated all over like a fancy dessert. I remembered it being a favorite from my childhood. Its silk and velvet ribbons were curled into bows and fripps, too many for me to count, and there were so many tiny roses sewn into bouquets that held up the two tiered skirt. It was any young girl’s dream dress. Slipping it off its hanger, I eagerly dressed myself, my unusable left hand barely a hindrance. All I could think about was how pretty I’d look. Mother was going to love me. She had to. 

 

The clock chimed twelve just as I was adjusting the silk headband Mother had made to match the dress and its confectionary flounces. A startled gasp slipped past my lips, and I hurried to clean up my mess, fishing a pair of silk stockings out of her dresser drawer as I did. Finishing touches were key, but I’d run out of time. Mother always came home at midnight. Like clockwork, I half expected her to stride into her room and find me in disarray, like she so often did, her hand ready to deal out the punishment she felt I so rightly deserved. 

 

“Must hurry, must…” scrambling to pull on the stockings and lace trim slippers I’d found in Mother’s rather sizeable shoe collection, I adjusted the flounces on my skirt and hurried out of the bedroom, making sure to close the door behind me. Mother couldn’t know I was in there without her permission. “Wait for me, please.” My slippers were silent on the carpet, carrying me swiftly down the dark hall. Our home was small, private, so it took me no time at all to reach the basement door. Down the stairs I went, hardly noting the old wood that creaked beneath my feet, appearing with a pastel flourish into a room that was glacial in temperature. My rosebud lips released the tiniest crystal clouds of condensation, and as I looked around at the other residents of Mother’s secret viewing chamber, I felt the happiness and triumph welling up inside me. Though fair of face and luminous with their eternally white skin, none of them were as beautiful as I! 

 

“Mother…..do you see?” Smiling brightly, I did a little spin in the frosty room, its glass coffins and delicate contents becoming a kaleidoscope of multicolored dresses and gleaming gold. And there, overtaking its center, were the eyes I so longed to see filled with praise, the face I’d begged to see flushed with pride. Mother was home, waiting for me. 

 

“I'm beautiful, aren’t I Mother? Don’t you think so??” I did a dainty curtsy before her prone form, ever perfect in posture as she sat in her Victorian chair, frost bitten hands pale against its velvet armrests. I knew she could see me, despite the glaze of whitish blue overcasting her gaze. Those hard eyes were assessing me, like they so often had in the past. 

 

“Please Mother….I worked so hard! Please, please tell me I did a good job. Tell me I made you proud.” My lips wobbled, nearly losing their blushed smile. I’d waited so long to hear the slightest bit of praise from the woman in front of me. She was my whole world. Mother and judge, jury, and executioner too, if she’d ever so desired. She tore me down as easily as she built me up, giving me the tools I needed to better myself. Now I’d taken what she’d taught me, and transformed. No longer was I her inept daughter. I was a flawless doll, picture perfect in every way! She would see that. She had to. I didn’t know what I’d do otherwise. 

 

“Mother……” sniffling, I fisted my skirt in my untouched hand, waiting for the gavel to drop. Her icy eyes were like magnifying glasses, picking apart every inch of me. I should’ve known. I couldn’t please her, no matter what I tried. Daughter, doll. Why would it make a difference?! I was still a disappointment, in every way that counted. Mother would never love me. She-

 

_ “Perfect.” _

 

Like a whisper of wind, that one little word swept over me, and I gasped. Surely it was my imagination? There was no conceivable way I heard my perfectionist Mother address me as...me as-!

 

From her throne, Mother smiled.  _ “So perfect. My magnificent little doll. Where have you been all this time?” _ She encouraged me forward, pure love gracing her features. It tore a sob from my throat. Could it really be true? She loved me, finally! After all this time, mine was the only visage Mother cared to caress, admire! I could see it in the way her lips were curled up, frozen in that look she saved solely for her dolls. And that’s what I was now. Her doll. Her most valuable, priceless doll, one created solely to please her. 

 

“Oh Mother.” My voice trembled, wet with tears. “I’ve waited so long for this day. All I wanted was for you to love me!” Running to her side, I stroked her rouged cheeks. Her skin felt like porcelain. “I understand now Mother. You couldn’t love me before. I was never enough for you! I tried, and tried, but all you could do was point out my flaws. I could never be you.” So I became something else. Something precious. Giggling, I perched myself on Mother’s lap, smoothing out my skirts until they draped over her own. “You really do love me now, don’t you? Aren’t I the very best doll in your whole collection?” 

 

_ “Yes _ . _ ”  _ Her lips ghosted across my cheek in a feathery kiss.  _ “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. Even I couldn’t make something as lovely as you. You must’ve worked so hard, beloved daughter!” _

 

“It was worth it Mother.” Every pained memory, the heartless abuse. I’d endure it all again just to be held like this, Mother’s stiff arms wrapping so gently around my waist, cradling me close. As long as she loved me, I could be content. Relaxing into her hold, cold though it was, I savored her pretty words, whispered softly against the shell of my ear. They gave my tired, agonized body comfort. Mother’s praise earned, now I could rest. It’d been so long since I sat on her lap like this. She rarely held me as a child. Those moments were brief, but fond, most occurring at the cusp of youth, when I was only just beginning to appreciate her truest pleasures in life. This was far sweeter, and a memory I would cherish to my grave. 

 

“I wish you could’ve made me a glass case like the others,” I whispered into Mother’s soft hair. “But this is better. We’re together now, Mother, truly. I’ll be your little doll forever.” 

 

_ “Forever…..”  _

 

“Yes. Forever.” Yawning, I curled into her body and let the cold’s sweet lullaby pull me under, sleep’s blissful fog making my lashes flutter closed. Here, I was safe and happy. Beloved. Surrounded by the things Mother cherished most, and Mother herself, sickly sweet with her rose perfume and potpourri scented silk skirts. This was all I’d ever wanted. “Mother,” I hummed, numb to the pain nestling inside my scalp and palm. All I felt was bliss. I was serene, still as porcelain. I was happy.

 

I...was a doll. And life was finally good. 

       


End file.
